Home
by Jinx2016
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is on a case, but this time without John Watson at his side. Will Sherlock survive the case or will John's wish be granted, leaving him a home without Sherlock Holmes? /this is Sherlock's POV from the series 'Anywhere but Home' Chapter 4. it can be read alone.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock pulled his coat closer to him as he stared down at the twenty-ninth body to be found this month. It was freezing out as usual. It always was on the big cases. Like someone was trying to stop him from finding the killer. Sherlock's eyes scanned the body once more, taking in every tiny fact. It was the same story like it had been with the other bodies. Body black and blue from being tortured to death and then three bullet wounds to end the victim's puny life. It was the same for each and every one of them and the serial killer was always careful. No hair, no prints, not one speck of DNA. Every day a body shows up. Each body appearing in the middle of the road with a letter tucked tightly in their hands. The letters made perfect sense once you figured out the riddles. Each one informed them where the next body would be. Lestrade would set his men out to watch the area, but somehow the murderer always got the body there under their noses. Normally this would have been the perfect case for a detective like Sherlock, but this whole case was missing something…or shall I say someone. John had left to visit his family, which Sherlock thought was stupid. Harry was the closest family he had and he never wanted anything to do with her before. Why now? Sherlock let out a long sigh, turning away from the body. He'd have to wait till tomorrow when John returns.

"Find anything?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock approached the DI's Police car. Sherlock shook his head. It almost killed him to do so. He hated that he couldn't find anything. There had to be something the killer slipped up on, but what? Lestrade let out a tired groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. The man had clearly not gotten the sleep he's needed at all this month. How could he? Every day and night he finds a new body and a new clue. He must be on guard twenty-four seven. "Want a ride home?" Lestrade offered suddenly. Sherlock shook his head again, staring back at the crime scene.

"Going to walk. Maybe something will come to mind," Sherlock sighed, walking away from the Detective Inspector. He ignored the shouts Lestrade hurled at him about how he'll catch cold and all that. He had much bigger fish to fry.

Sherlock began to walk through the iron gate of the park the body was collected when his feet slipped on the slippery ice below him. Sherlock's body fell, his coat snagging to the gate as he went down. Sherlock groaned, hoping that Donavan and Anderson had not seen that. He didn't need them taping his klutzy behavior and sending it all around the world. He was about to pull himself when an idea struck him. This gate is the only way in and out of this private park. If the Killer had left through here he would have slipped as well. Sherlock's eyes quickly looked at where his coat had snagged. Sure enough, there on the sharp piece of the gate two ripped fabrics hung. One was from Sherlock's coat and the other was from the killer. Sherlock smirked. This little piece was all he needed to drag this case to a close.

* * *

"Molly, what did you get on the fabric sample?" Sherlock asked, looking through the case samples. Another body would turn up late tomorrow night and Sherlock had to catch him before then. Molly strolled over, fiddling with the containers nervously.

"A …um…hair sample," Molly stuttered setting the container with the strand of hair she picked of the fabric in front of the detective. Sherlock took the see through case and stared at the blond strand of hair. It wasn't very long so it must be a man's, either that or a woman who cut's her hair extremely short, but that's unlikely. Sherlock carefully took the strand from the case and began running tests with other hair samples, searching for a single match. Molly hovered over him a few seconds, watching him work like she always did and then turned back to the doors, probably getting some coffees. Sherlock didn't care at the moment. He was too focused at the case at hand. He was so close now. Bleep! Sherlock looked at the computer as it screamed with life. He had found a match. That's when Molly returned. She was carrying two coffees with her. She froze as she heard the computer bleeping. She set the drinks to the side and rushed to Sherlock's side, staring at the computer with him.

"Isaac Canary," Molly said out loud as she read off the name.

"Charged for abuse towards his now deceased wife and her sister. " Sherlock read, storing the information for later.

"Do you think it's him?" Molly asked in almost a whisper. Sherlock nodded. It had to be him. Sherlock got up from his chair, taking the steaming cup of coffee from Molly and headed out the door. He heard Molly wish him luck, but barely heard the words leave her mouth. He was too determined. He had to catch this brilliant lunatic before things got worse, or before things got boring.

* * *

Sherlock walked down the street in search of any one that fit the description of Isaac Canary. He had been walking all night and now the sun hung high in the sky. He was cold from being out in the freezing wind, but he refused to head back to Baker Street so soon. He was close. He could feel it. No body had been found yet and according to the temperatures of the bodies the killer waits till the day of to kill his victims. Isaac is most likely hunting for his newest victim right now-  
Sherlock froze as a man with blond hair stepped out from a hotel room. He wore a brown coat with a tear in the back and his hands were scared from hitting. Sherlock pulled the photograph of the man the hair had belonged to and sure enough, they were identical. Sherlock had found him. He had found the serial killer. Sherlock was about to grab his phone when he noticed Isaac was staring at him with slit eyes. Sherlock looked up at the man and in that very instance Canary rushed down the street. Sherlock groaned with irritation, running after the man.

"Lestrade, Isaac Canary is our man. I'm chasing him right now on Maple Street," Sherlock called into his phone.

"What? Sherlock, stop! You can't go chasing after criminals on your own-" Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could lecture him any longer. Yikes, couldn't Lestrade just say a simple thank you for solving the case for me or something like that? Why must he always have to lecture him? He is clearly capable of watching over himself. Although, most of those times John had been with him. Now John was nowhere to be seen. He no longer had his loyal doctor to assist him in the chasing and the fun. Sherlock quickly turned the corner, dodging the trash cans that Isaac smacked at him. The guy was going to have to try harder than that to get rid of _him_. Sherlock picked up speed. He was only inches away now. Just a few more strides and-

WHAM! A car raced in front Sherlock. The detective gasped as he flew backward from the force of the car rushing past. His back smacked against the concrete road, sending a jolt of pain up Sherlock's spine. That was going to leave a bruise for sure. Sherlock yanked himself to his feet only to find that Isaac was far away. Sherlock slammed a fist into the concrete, enraged that Isaac had gotten out of his clutches. If John had been here he would have pulled Sherlock out of the cars path. John would have had his gun and shot Isaac. John would be standing with him and Lestrade as they interrogated the dastardly weasel. Sherlock let out a long sigh, turning on his heels to return back to 221B. He needed John and he needed him now. John was coming home tonight. Once he's back the murderer will be behind bars and the two of them will be sitting back at Baker Street. John will be updating his blog and Sherlock will be looking for a new case. If only that really was what was really going to happen.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock up a cup of tea as he sat in his chair waiting for John to return. After all, two detectives are better than one. Sherlock sipped at the tea, starring into the flames that burned in the fireplace. His mind went through every speck of data in his mind. Isaac was cunning and was very careful. Sherlock would need everything and anything to take this one down.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both perked up when they heard a knock at the door.

"That must be, John," Mrs. Hudson stated, walking to the door. Sherlock walked with her but froze as the second knock's pattern registered in Sherlock's head. That wasn't right. John's knocking pattern is quicker. This couldn't be John, but then who was it? Mrs. Hudson opened the door and paled when a gun was pointed at her. It was Isaac! Sherlock jumped in front of Mrs. Hudson, blocking her from the gun. A wild smile was painted across Canary's face, sickening the detective.

"You should be more careful when walking home after chasing a killer. You never know who will be fallowing," Isaac hissed. Sherlock glanced around the room, searching for anything he could use to distract Isaac for him and Mrs. Hudson to get out. John's case was close by. If he hit Isaac over the head he and Mrs. Hudson could escape and get Lestrade. He would have to be quick though. Sherlock took a deep breath and lunged for the cane. Isaac fired, but missed. Sherlock clutched the old cane tightly in his hand and wacked Isaac in the head. Isaac yelped, falling to the ground. Blood dripped from his head where Sherlock had hit him. Sherlock grabbed Mrs. Hudson's wrist and yanked her downstairs and outside. Sherlock could hear Isaac's footsteps running close behind. He knew there was no way both him and Mrs. Hudson could outrun Isaac, but maybe there was another way.

Sherlock turned into an alleyway, dragging Mrs. Hudson with him.

"Mrs. Hudson, stay hidden here, I'll lead him away," Sherlock said, pushing Mrs. Hudson behind some boxes.

"No, Sherlock, please…" Mrs. Hudson began whimpering. Sherlock brushed a tear from her eye and whispered softly,

"It'll be fine." with that said he ran.

He turned through streets and allies, trying to outrun the murderer, who was coming after him. Sherlock turned again, but found that he was at a dead end with nothing to hide behind. He was stuck.

"Well, looks like the chase is up, Mr. Holmes," Isaac's voice cackled from the entrance of the alley. Sherlock turned around in time to see Isaac's eyes glisten before three loud shots erupted from the gun and catapulted into his body. Sherlock gasped as the pain shot up all over his body, sending him to the ground motionless. "Farewell, Mr. Holmes," was the last he heard from Mr. Canary and soon all was quiet.

* * *

Sherlock sputtered as blood forced its way up his throat. His body was growing cold and his limbs were losing their feeling. He tried to lift himself, but it was no use. The pain was too unbearable. Sherlock glanced down at his body, watching as blood soaked heavily through his clothes. He had to try to stop the bleeding. Slowly he moved his hand to one of the wounds, the one that was bleeding the most. He pressed down, hissing through his teeth as hot pain burned up his body. He forced his mind elsewhere to rid himself of the pain. He thought about Baker Street and John. He wondered to himself if John had returned yet and was searching for him. How could he though? John had no way to find him…or did he? Sherlock pulled his arm momentarily from the wound to his pocket. There he found his phone. He just needed to turn it on. He needed to help John find him. He was so tired though. Every movement hurt. Sherlock lifted the phone up to his face, clicking it on before dropping it as the weight of the phone grew too heavy for his hand. Now he could only hope, but as he calculated his wounds and the amount of time he must have been sitting there already he realized that hope was not going to be strong enough to save him. He was going to die here. He thought back to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. What would they think if they found him dead here? John would most likely blame himself for not being there. He always blamed himself when Sherlock got injured when he wasn't there to help. Although, John was always saying how he wished Sherlock wasn't home sometimes. Sherlock closed his eyes. How will his death affect John? His gut tightened. It was his fault. He had to send John some kind of message. He needed to send a text maybe, but he was so tired now. No, he had to send it. Sherlock's hand slipped down to where he dropped the phone and he painfully flicked to John's number. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. His breathing was reducing, he could feel it. He didn't have long now. Sherlock punched in the message with great effort. With one last breath and all of his remaining strength Sherlock pressed send, blacking out into a lifeless sleep.

_Messages to John Watson: Srry_

* * *

**This is Sherlock's POV of Chapter 4 of Anywhere but Home. i had promised if i got any reviews that i would write it and a promise is a promise so here it is. there will be more to this one so hang on tight. thank's for reading guys!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark.

That was Sherlock Holmes's first observation. It was just black where he now lied. He was no longer in the alleyway in his own blood. He was cold to the touch and smelt like death. Sherlock looked around, hoping that maybe this was all just a dream.

"Where am I?" Sherlock wondered out loud, pulling himself from the floor that seemed to be black marble.

"Hell, obviously," stated an all too familiar sing song. Sherlock whirled around to see Moriarty dressed in the same cloths he had worn the day he first met Sherlock at the pool. Sherlock paled as he stared into the madman's glassy eyes. This was not what he was hoping to see when he died. "What?' Moriarty's corpse asked him. "Had something else in mind other than seeing little old me?" Sherlock stared at the paled consulting criminal. His body was slowly decomposing by the looks of it, even though Sherlock knew for a fact Moriarty has not died…yet. The devil must be taunting him that he had never gotten the chance to put this monster behind bars. On Moriarty's jaw line the skin had rotted away and was now showing the jaw bone and teeth. He smelled as if he had been lying with corpses of rotting animals and maggots for years, which even made Sherlock want to gag. The only thing on Moriarty that was untouched by this nightmare was his eyes. They were still a threatening dark color that stabbed into you until you pleaded for mercy. They were dimmer from death, but the dark circles that now outlined them seamed to add an even creepier feeling, a feeling that he was even stronger in death.

"Figured there'd be more flames and a little man with horns and a pitchfork," Sherlock teased, avoiding Moriarty's eyes. The madman laughed, letting his cackle ricochet through the empire of nothingness that they were forever entombed in.

"I don't know about blazing fires, but they did seem to send you _your_ version of the devil," Moriarty sneered. Sherlock watched as Moriarty's body flashed into a little red man with horns and a tale, but then flashed back again. Sherlock refused to let the fright that was threatening him take hold. He was terrified, yes, he would admit that, but that doesn't mean he's going to show it to this man.

"Hmmm…seems a little dramatic," Sherlock sighed, hiding his fear with the look of boredom. Moriarty giggled like an excited child and began circling the detective.

"Well, that's the afterlife for you. It loves to play with your _fears_," Moriarty cackled. Sherlock watched him carefully until something so impossibly terrifying happened.

"Mummy?!" a child's voice called from the darkness. Sherlock turned only to see a young five year old boy quivering in the darkness. His black curls hung in his face and tears were plastered to his cheeks. "Mummy?" the little boy began crying again. Sherlock felt his non-beating heart twist as he watched the child linger helplessly in the darkness in search of someone Sherlock knew he was not going to find.

"Aw, childhood memories," Moriarty sighed dreamily. "I remember mine well. Nothing as heartwarming as you, but it did include my mother, well, until I killed her that is," Moriarty sighed, smiling at the memory as it danced in his mind. Sherlock stared at Moriarty in disgust.

"Stop this," Sherlock shouted at him. Moriarty held his hands up.

"Can't, buddy, you're in eternal punishment. I can't help you here; I can only make things more miserable. Sherlock bit his lips, trying to hold back the emotions that threatened him. It wasn't working though. They were too strong. Running caught his attention immediately as another memory came to play. This time it was Mycroft, who was scolding a young boy that was running from him. Terror was leaking from every corner of the boy's expression. Suddenly, the boys arm was captured and a hand slammed into his face. The child fell to the floor as Mycroft brushed the blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief. The curly haired boy lied on the black floor, weeping in pain. Tears threatened Sherlock's eyes again. The memory scurried back from where it was locked deep in his mind palace. Sherlock tore his lip from biting so hard, but found no blood draining from it. He was dead. Why would he need something like blood in the first place?

"Now, what's this? A little family drama?" Moriarty asked, resting his hands against Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock stiffened, not turning his eyes from his brother.

"None of your business!" Sherlock shouted through his teeth. Moriarty tightened his grip against Sherlock shoulders. Whispering the words Mycroft had screamed at Sherlock all those years ago in his ear, Moriarty twirled around him with pleasure.

"It is now!" Moriarty sang, repeating Mycroft's hateful words over and over again out loud. Sherlock's knees buckled, but Moriarty caught him. If Sherlock's heart had not been stopped already it would have now. Another memory came to them, only this time Sherlock wondered if it was a bad memory or not. John was sitting in the darkness, typing. He seemed happy. What was the problem with that? That's when he noticed what John was really looking at. John was typing up the story of the bombing, the case where Moriarty failed to destroy them. Sherlock glanced at Moriarty, waiting for the madman to say something annoying, but Moriarty only watched. Sherlock guessed that this memory was too close to the criminal. This was also for him. It was telling him how much he failed to ruin Sherlock's life.

"Looks like I'm not the only one being punished today," Sherlock teased, smirking at the rotting criminal. Moriarty frowned stepped into the memory, dissolving it into smoke. John's form reappeared then, but this time the doctor looked tired and weary. He was lying on the couch and a living Sherlock Holmes was at his side. Sherlock instantly remembered that day. It had gone horribly wrong. John had been incredibly ill. It didn't help that Sherlock had brought along the St. Bernard they had acquired in a case.

"If you had never been home this would have never happened," John had sighed. Sherlock had answered back with some stupid comeback, making John laugh. Before, he had thought John had been kidding all those times he wished Sherlock had not been around, but now as he watched it again he realized that maybe John wasn't just joking around. His gut tightened at the thought. How many times have bad things happened because Sherlock came home? Far more than able to count. He had scared John's sister away (actually that one may be for the best), he kept John up with fireworks and fighting, he even brought a giant dog home when John was clearly ill from the stench of it. Maybe John was better off now that he was dead.

"Looks like you were a real burden in life," Moriarty sighed, breaking the memory into dust again. Sherlock felt his dead heart shatter inside him. He couldn't stop the emotions now; they were too strong. He was a burden. He always had been. His family and friends were always hurt or halted because of him. Sherlock didn't brush away the tear that forced its way down his cheek. Moriarty grabbed Sherlock by the neck and pushed him hard against a black wall. Sherlock gasped in surprise. "Show's over, Sherlock, it's time to go!" Moriarty shouted. The floor opened up into a whirlwind of black smoke. The pull of the wind was so strong it yanked the skin and muscle from Moriarty's body, leaving only white bone. Moriarty held Sherlock's wrist tight, pulling him down in the whirlwind with him. Sherlock tried to pull away, keeping on the part of the floor that was still solid. Moriarty's cackle rung through his ears louder and louder. Everything seemed to be getting worse, until a hot spark of pain burst through Sherlock's chest. Sherlock let out a shriek of pain, crumpling to the solid floor. The whirlwind began to move slower and Moriarty's grip loosened. The madman's eyeless skeleton glared at Sherlock. "How can you feel pain? You're dead," the skeleton grumbled. Sherlock cried out again as another shock burst through his chest. Whatever it was it hurt. Whispering began echoing from the whirlwind that was trying to pull him down.

"_Trying to save him,"_ the whispers said over again. Moriarty let out an irritated hiss.

"Looks like John Watson hasn't given up on you just yet," Moriarty growled. Hope sprung through Sherlock like a fire. Oh please let that be true, he thought. "I am not going to make it easy for him!" Moriarty screamed, tugging harder on Sherlock. The whirlwind picked up and Sherlock's grip against the solid flooring burst. Sherlock flew down the whirlwind with Moriarty cackling all the way. Sherlock ran his hands through the thick clouds of darkness, searching for anything to hold on to. He needed help. He was losing himself.

"Please, John, help me," Sherlock stutter, closing his eyes as the darkness began to suffocate him completely. Just then a strong hand grabbed his. Sherlock opened his eyes to see a bright light in front of him. In the light stood John, who was wearing a long white robe. John's hands tightened against Sherlock's shaking ones and Sherlock felt another shock of pain. This time his heart burst to life. Sherlock gasped as warm blood began pumping through his chilled body.

"It's ok now, Sherlock," John stated simply. Sherlock smiled at his friend. John had saved him. His loyal and most trustworthy friend had come to his plea.

"NO!" screamed a shriveled scream. Sherlock turned to see Moriarty tugging at his body.

"He is no longer yours," John said simply, touching the skeleton with his glowing hand. With that Moriarty began to revert to dust. The madman screamed, scratching at Sherlock, but his bony fingers reverted to dust before he could claw into Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as both Moriarty and the whirlwind disappeared, leaving just Sherlock and John together in the room. "Let's go home," John whispered, touching Sherlock's chest where the heart sat stone cold. With a single touch of John's warm hand another agonizing shock burst through his chest and Sherlock's eyes flickered open. He was in a hospital in the middle of a surgery. That was easy to find out from all the blood soaked doctors and tubes. Sherlock tried to talk, but nothing came out. He was so tired. He watched as a nurse brushed a hand gently across his cheek and gave him another dose of some drug. In moments Sherlock was asleep, but this time hell was not waiting for him.

* * *

**I really enjoyed writing this one. I was giggling evilly through the whole thing. I had to bring Moriarty into this as well. It just was a little nagging sensation that wouldn't leave so I just said, "what the hell." This was all taking part when John, the paramedics, and the doctors were trying to revive him in chapter 4. As you can see it worked. Keep an eye out for the next one! It may be a little while because of the 'Twenty days With Lestrade' and 'Danger'. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it!**


	3. Chapter 3

"_Burden"_

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open once again as he came back from his endless sleep. He scanned his surroundings, noticing he was no longer in surgery. That was a relief. He was still in the hospital though. His body ached all over and his eyes were so heavy they felt like they would soon collapse closed again, but the soft whimpering of John Watson kept them open. Sherlock turned his head to face his best friend, who now sat weeping at Sherlock's bedside. Sherlock felt his now beating heart squeeze at the sight of his most loyal of friends shattered with grief.

"_Burden."_

Sherlock shivered as Moriarty's voice hissed through his mind. What should he do? What can he do? Finally making up his mind Sherlock drags his hand to John's, gently brushing his fingers against his friend's. John looked up, a startled look splashed across his tear stained cheeks.

"Sorry," Sherlock's hoarse voice whispered from behind the bed sheets. His heart beat rapidly as John looked as though he would break down again. Sherlock watched as John pulled the blankets from his face. Relief instantly replaced the grief stricken eyes of John Watson. The tears fell freely down John's eyes and onto Sherlock's face, but the detective didn't care. He was too pleased to see his old friend again.

"What for?" John asked gently, wiping his eyes. Sherlock chewed at his lip, wondering what he could say. Sherlock thought about apologizing for everything. He had been a burden to John and everyone else, but could he do it? He thought about letting out the sentiment that bubbled inside him, but he couldn't. It just wasn't him. John would grow worried if he saw the great Sherlock Holmes show sentiment and Sherlock could not bear to see his friend in any more distress.

"For almost dying of course. Think of how dull your silly life would have been without me," Sherlock stated finally, letting a smile curve across his face as he teased his best friend.

"Yeah, well at least I'd have a nice peaceful life at home with no fireworks, fights with the government, no messed up lunches with siblings, and no giant dogs," John teased.

"_Burden"_

Sherlock flinched at the memory of the nightmare he had witnessed when he was almost swooped away from the devil himself. The burdens he had brought to his best friend seemed to haunt Sherlock whether he was dead or not.

"You'd be bored to death in a matter of seconds, admit it," Sherlock sighed, keeping at his cool act. John let out a sigh and nodded in agreement.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Don't you dare ever leave me alone at home like that again," John ordered. Sherlock frowned at John. John had missed him. He hadn't meant those words from the past. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and lifted his hand up in a solute.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock teased, laughing happily. John gave him a look, but eventually joined Sherlock in the fit of laughter. Sherlock let the joy of their laughter replace the horrible hisses of Moriarty's decaying cackles. This was over, and done with. Moriarty was gone; John had saved Sherlock from his clutches.

* * *

**Sorry this one was so short and about the wait. I wanted to get the whole wake up scene over and done with so we could move on to recovery and Isaac Canary. Thanks for reading guys! **


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock, you need to go back to the hospital!" John shouted as Sherlock climbed into the cab. Sherlock wrapped his coat tightly around him, trying to block out the cold. He had had enough of the hospital. It was a jail to him. He was stuck in a little room with nothing to do but sleep. Well, not anymore. He was leaving and he was leaving now. He had to hunt down Isaac and through him back into the cell waiting for him in prison. Sherlock watched as John slipped into the seat next to him. The silent treatment works again. Sherlock called out their address to the cabbie and let his head lay against the cool window. He let his mind wonder, letting everything slowly spin back to normal. He didn't even notice that he was drifting away until the images of the alley appeared in front of him. He no longer had nightmares about Moriarty, well, sometimes, but they were rare. Everything seemed better after he first woke up. Now though, he is panting from running and is frozen to the bone. There is no way out; he's stuck. He's about to turn and run, but then-

Sherlock felt John shaking him gently, trying to wake him. Sherlock gasps, eyes flying open as the dream evaporated, but not before Sherlock saw the blood spill from his body as the bullets swept through him.

"Are you alright?" John asked, not moving his hand from Sherlock's shoulder. The detective blinked his eyes, forcing himself back into the present.

"I'm fine," Sherlock stated, shrugging himself away from John's touch. "Doesn't matter." Sherlock felt John's eyes frowning at him and knew for a fact that John was not just going to let him go with this. He didn't want to talk about it though. Talking never really helps. It just makes you think that. Talking cannot take the memory from your head no matter how much you talk to your psychiatrist or friend.

"Is it about what happened at the alley?" Sherlock ignored John's question. Of course this was about the alley! What else could it be? "Sherlock, I'm here if you want to-"

"No."

"Sherlock, you don't need to block people out like this! You-"

"John, I've dealt with this kind of thing before. I'll be fine." John's eyes widened in horror. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at his friend. "No not with almost dying. With…other things," Sherlock said with a pause, remembering the past images he had been shown.

"Your past," John uttered in realization. Sherlock kept silent, hoping that maybe that would be enough for John. He was right, John pulled his hand away and the two of them sat silently in the cab. They were only a few blocks away from home when Sherlock's eyes fixed with another. Standing just in an alley way stood Isaac Canary! Sherlock's heart slammed to a stop and anger bubbled inside him.

"Stop the cab!" Sherlock shouted. He didn't wait the for the cab to come to a complete stop though before jumping into the street, chasing after the man who brought him even closer to death than he has ever been before.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice called to him, but Sherlock didn't stop running. He had to get him. He had to get Canary now! He turned into the alleyway only to find himself standing by a dead end.

"Well, looks like the chase is up, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock turned as the familiar voice rang through his ears. Sherlock turned, his hands shaking slightly. "Farewell, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock backed up into the wall as he realized what was coming next, but it was too late. Bullet's spun at him, shredding into his skin. Sherlock hissed at the pain, falling to his knees. He felt a boot kick him in the side and stared up into Isaac's black eyes. Isaac? No, it wasn't Isaac now. The skin was rotting away from the jaw line and his eyes were dark and lifeless.

"Burdon," Moriarty's voice hissed to him. Sherlock's body grew cold as he watched the image of Moriarty's body twist and turn into different figures; some from his past and some from his present life. Sherlock covered his face with his bloody hands, shaking in actual fear. Why was this happening? Why couldn't they leave him alone?

"SHERLOCK! Sherlock, wake up!" Sherlock looked around as the familiar voice of John Watson came to him. He couldn't see anything though. he was stuck in that alley, surrounded by his own blood and taunting figures.

"Time to go Mr. Holmes," Sherlock watched as a dark cloaked figure came closer, bony hands held out to him.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed, flying upward. John's hands were on him instantly. Sherlock's eyes flew around the room. He was in his flat, lying covered in sweat on the couch. His body was shaking and his eyes were tear stained. He looked around, trying to remember how he got there. He gave up, realizing he was too shaken to think; too shaken to hide the emotions that threatened to come forth.

"Sherlock, I'm here," John whispered, holding Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes fixed on John, remembering the moment John saved him from the dead Moriarty. He let out a shaky sigh, realizing he really would be lost without his blogger.

"How did I-"

"Get here?" John interrupted, reading Sherlock's mind. "You left the hospital before you were supposed to and we got a cab. You had a nightmare and then fell asleep again so I had to have the cabbie help me carry you back up all those steps," John teased. Sherlock didn't laugh; he didn't smile. Sherlock only sat with his knees pulled to his chest and his head resting on his knees.

"Sorry," Sherlock whimpered, letting his head fall into his knees. John's face fell and he was suddenly next to Sherlock on the couch; one hand on Sherlock's back and the other on his hand.

"What's wrong?" John asked. The question was more of an order and Sherlock knew that there was no way to get out of it now. He let out a small sigh and told John _everything_. Sherlock told him about the alley and hell. He told him about the endless nightmares that haunted him day and night. Never once did he shed a tear as he spoke to his friend about what happened to him. He just talked.

"So you were scared. That's what you meant when you went through it before. You were scared that death had finally claimed you." Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip until he tasted the small hint of blood. Eventually he nodded, not able to talk. He was still to shaken from the nightmare. He was afraid that maybe he may just break into tears or worse. John let out a sigh and looked at Sherlock, who refused to meet his eyes. "Everyone gets scared, Sherlock, even you," John stated.

"I'm different."

"No, you're not. You are human; a human that almost lost their lives in an alley without anybody with you." Sherlock's head slowly turned to John's. His eyes stared at his friend. The mask was still off. He couldn't put it back on. His body was shaking too much.

"I'm a psychopath, John," Sherlock said in almost a whisper. John shook his head, a small smile curling over his face.

"You are many things, Sherlock, but a psychopath is not one of them." John, completely disobeying Sherlock's no touching policy wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged the detective. Sherlock hesitated as John hugged him. He felt his shaking limbs slowly calm and his breath even out. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe talking was the right medicine to something like this. Interesting.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

* * *

**I'm so sorry about the wait for this one guys! I was having a lot of trouble with this one. I didn't want to disappoint. I hope you will all like this one. Thanks for waiting! **


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat in Lestrade's office, gazing over the latest case files from Isaac's latest killing. John was at the flat, unknowing about Sherlock's escape from the boring flat. John had strictly informed him that there was no way he was going to be running after criminals when just getting back from the hospital, but he should have known that that was never going to occur. Now Sherlock was busy looking through around thirty and counting case files, along with Isaac Canary's. He had been searching through all of them since this morning.

"Find anything yet?" Lestrade asked, stepping into the office. Sherlock swore as he jumped partially out of his chair. He should have locked the door. He let his eyes rise to where Lestrade hovered over him with crossed arms. "Didn't you get grounded?" Lestrade asked, frowning at the detective. Sherlock shrugged, looking back at the files and rearranging them back into order for Lestrade.

"He said no chasing after criminals. John didn't say that I couldn't look at the crime file," Sherlock stated, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't kick him out just yet. He was getting close. He could feel it. He just needed a little more time.

"Yeah, should have figured you had found a technicality," Lestrade sighed, staring at the files lying on his desk top. "Now, did you find anything?" Lestrade asked again. Sherlock handed Lestrade the bloodied notes that Isaac always left to assist the police in finding the next body.

"In the last clue he had been rambling on about art. I think he may be planning his next and greatest little show at the art museum," Sherlock stated. Lestrade nodded staring at the notes Sherlock was referring to. The DI poked his head out his office door, searching for Donavan or Anderson.

"Donavan!" Lestrade shouted as Sally walked passed with Anderson at her side. Sally stopped walking and stared at Lestrade. Her eyes gazed into the office, noticing that her least favorite person was sitting inside behind her superior's desk.

"Yes, Sir?" She asked, turning her hated gaze from Sherlock.

"Send a squad over to the art museum!" Lestrade Shouted at her. Sally nodded, disappearing with Anderson out of the Yard. Complaining could be heard, but Sherlock and Lestrade didn't pay any mind to it. Lestrade then turned on his heal to face Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective looked overly tired. Dark rings were under his eyes and his breathing seemed a little off. His body was probably being stressed too much today. What with all the pain from his slow healing wounds, escaping from the watchful eye of John Watson, and hunting for Isaac Canary there was no surprise that he was exhausted. "Now to take you home," Lestrade stated, grabbing his coat from behind Sherlock's chair.

"I'm not a child, I can go home myself," Sherlock pouted, looking very much like a child. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him, indicating that he thought different.

"Yeah, come on," Lestrade said, yanking Sherlock from the chair out the door.

* * *

"John, look who's back!" Lestrade shouted, swinging the door open to their flat. Sherlock and Lestrade stepped inside only to find themselves staring wide eyed at the demolished flat. Everything was flipped over like there had been a struggle. Sherlock's body shook as his eyes darted around his home, until the fell on a sheet of paper resting on the mantel of the still burning fireplace. Sherlock lifted the letter reading it silently to himself.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out to him. Sherlock turned, dropping the letter. His eyes were burning with anger, sending fear up Lestrade's spine. The usually cool detective looked like he was going to blow from outrage. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade asked, glancing at Sherlock shaking enclosed fists.

"Let's go to the art museum."

* * *

**Yes, I did have to leave you with a cliffhanger. It wouldn't have been any fun if I didn't. The end is starting to come closer now. I can't tell you if the next chapter will be the last or if I'll have a couple more yet. We'll have to see what I come up with for ideas. Anywho…thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

"It's going to be alright" Lestrade tried to reassure Sherlock as they walked up to the museum doors. Sherlock trudged next to him. he wore his usually cool emotionless mask, but inside he was actually terrified. Sherlock couldn't believe Lestrade's words of comfort. Isaac wasn't going to let any of them go without a scratch. This was going to be bloody…very bloody. He glanced at Lestrade; the only friend he had that hasn't been effected by Isaac yet. Sherlock may not be the sentimental kind, but right now he knew that he couldn't let Lestrade get hurt like him and John. He couldn't lose his friends; not because of his stupid life.

Sherlock leaned against the cool doorway as he awaited Lestrade to get finished picking the lock. He would have teased him for taking so long, but he was too busy wondering what John must be going through right now. Was he lying on the floor with three bullets in him along with some note taped to his chest? Was he even alive? Sherlock let a shaky breath leave his lips. He had to remain calm.

"Got it!" Lestrade shouted as he pulled the lock and chain from the door. Sherlock pulled himself away from where his body was resting against one side of the doorway. He strolled through, but as soon as he was inside the museum he turned around, flinging the door shut and locking it from the inside.

"Sorry, Lestrade, but this is between me and Isaac," Sherlock stated through the door.

"Sherlock! Please, let me in! He'll kill you!" Lestrade shouted, smacking his fists against the door. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, staring at the blank door. He knew that, but he couldn't let another friend almost get killed because of him. He ran a hand through his curly mess of hair and turned on his heels, staring into the dark corridors that lied ahead of him. Ignoring Lestrade's shouting, Sherlock strolled down the hallways, gun drawn.

* * *

The place was empty, but Sherlock could still make out the sound of heavy breathing. The kind of breathing you hear from someone who is terrified, tired, and hurt. That had to be John. There was no reason for Isaac to be breathing heavy. John on the other hand was kidnapped and is probably hurt badly. Following the breathing of his friend, he came to a room cluttered with dusty old paintings. It must be the storage for paintings and other art that the museum no longer bothers to show. Sitting in the middle of the darkened room was John Watson. He was sitting in an old dusty chair tied up tightly with rope. His eyes were closed and blood was gushing from his head along with a few other places. Sherlock hesitantly approached John, pointing his gun in every direction. This had to be a trap. There was no way Isaac- the careful serial killer would just leave John out in the open for him to rescue.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, kneeling down to his friend. John's bloodshot eyes opened slowly. He blinked at Sherlock a couple times and then gasped in terror.

"Sherlock, you've got to get out of here! It's a-"

"Trap," Sherlock interrupted, nodding in understanding. "I know, John." John frowned at him.

"And you still came alone?" John asked, looking rather surprised and amused. Sherlock smiled at him.

"I couldn't leave my best friend at the hands of a serial killer…again." Sherlock said while pulling out his pocket knife and cutting the ropes that bound his friend to the chair.

"Oh, how sweet…looks like the uncaring Sherlock Holmes I've read in the papers is not as he seems," Isaac mused, coming into sight. Sherlock jumped up, glaring at the man that now pointed a gun at his head. He gritted his teeth and stepped in front of John, protecting his friend.

"It's over, Isaac, the police are here and this time you won't disappear right from under them," Sherlock hissed. Isaac broke out into a fit of laughter. Tears were actually beginning to fall from his cheeks as he laughed at the detective. Sherlock's body tensed as the familiar cackling echoed through the storage room like it had in the alley. He tightened his grip on his gun and glared into Isaac's shadowy eyes, looking for any fear or uncertainty. There was none, though. Isaac was completely care-free and calm. Well, why would he be nervous? He's not the one who could lose his best friend and himself at the moment. Right now the odds were all in his favor and completely against Sherlock and John as usual, only this time they most likely were not getting out alive.

Isaac stepped closer to them, keeping his gun pointed at Sherlock's head. The murderer stopped once he was only an arms-length away and stated simply,

"No…I guess I won't, but I can still give them one last masterpiece!" Isaac's gun screamed as the bullet left the barrel.

"NO!" John screamed, pulling Sherlock down to the floor with him. The bullet smacked into an old painting and the two blogger detectives sat safely on the floor. Isaac swore and lifted his gun a second time, but this time Sherlock was ahead of him. Sherlock kicked Isaac's gun from his hand and swung a punch into the murderer's jaw. Thick red blood leaked from the tear on Isaac's lip. Isaac's fingers dabbed at the blood and his eyes scanned it in awe. A smile curled over his face, making even Sherlock shiver. The way he looked at the blood it was like…like blood lust.

"My turn," Isaac hissed, swinging his arms at Sherlock, pinning him against the wall. Isaac's free arm grabbed a wooden pole with strange carvings printed on it and smacked it over Sherlock's head. "That's for the whole business with the cane from before." Sherlock's body slid down to the floor as Isaac's voice whispered softly to him. Sherlock held his head as blood began to dribble down from his temple dripping off his chin. Isaac licked his lips, turning his head like an amused child at the blood that slowly slithered down Sherlock's face. "Blood," Isaac began. "It's the greatest piece of art in the world. It keeps our bodies alive and adds just a tad of color. It's the perfect paint for my masterpieces." Sherlock's stomach clenched in disgust. So this was what all these murders were all about. They weren't some petty feud with someone or another Moriarty fiasco. This was passion; passion for the beauty of a crime scene. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth curve up. He didn't know if it was disgust curling in his stomach after all. Now he just wondered his it was the rush and the greatness of this case. The feeling faded quickly as he felt the pole smack against him again. He groaned in pain, but quickly leapt to his feet. He had to protect himself or both he and John were going to die tonight. Sherlock's eyes searched the floor for his gun, but the weapon had skidded way too far away. He would have to come up with something else. His eyes scanned the area, falling on a glittering sword in a glass casing. Surly the museum wouldn't mind him using it for self-defense. Sherlock quickly smashed his fist against the glass, ignoring the burning pain from the broken glass digging into his skin and pulled out the ancient weapon.

"Sorry, Mr. Canary, but I'm not donating blood today and neither is my friend!" Sherlock shouted, slicing the sword at Isaac. Isaac let out a small cry as the sharp blade ripped a long deep cut in his shoulder. His eyes blazed with fiery and he lunged at Sherlock with his pole. Sherlock blocked the blow, but Isaac kicked him in the stomach, sending him hard into a pillar. Sherlock slouched against the cool stone, breathing heavy. He was exhausted. His wounds were still in the heeling process and this little fight was not what his body needed.

"Sherlock, watch out!" John gasped as Isaac lifted the pole to hit Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes fluttered up and he lifted the sword, stabbing Isaac in the waist. Isaac backed off, pulling his body off of the sword and groaning in pain by the deep cut that now stabbed into his abdomen. Sherlock, using what energy he had left ran over to John, wrapping his arm around his friend and ran up to the stairway that led to the next floor. His body ached from the extra weight, but Sherlock held onto John. He wasn't going to lose is best friend tonight; especially to this maniac.

"Where's Canary?" John's voice said suddenly before they got even half way up the stairway. Sherlock stopped running and leaned over the side railing, looking at where the battle had just happened only moments ago. Sherlock sucked in a breath as his eyes scanned the now empty room.

"This doesn't feel right," he stated under his breath.

"You can say that again," John stated, looking around with Sherlock. "He can be anywhere."

"Not just anywhere," Isaac's cold voice cackled. Sherlock stiffened. He had to be close. "I'm right above you." Sherlock and John looked up, startled. Hidden in the shadows of the rafters hid Isaac no longer with a pole but a gun carrying exactly six bullets. Three were for Sherlock and three were for John. Blood dripped down onto them from the gaping wound Sherlock had given the madman. Sadly, it didn't look like it was going to help slow him down very much.

"RUN!" Sherlock shouted, pushing john, but Isaac jumped in front of them before they could go any farther.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," Isaac sneered as he pointed his gun at the two stunned men. Sherlock and John held their breath as they the horrible blast of a gun bounced throughout the room.

"Sherlock, John!" a voice shouted at them. Their eyes stared in surprise at Isaac, who was sputtering up blood. Sherlock's eyes trailed to where Lestrade was standing at the bottom of the stairs, pointing his smoking gun at the man he had been hunting for months. Sherlock looked back at Isaac in time to see him lift his gun at him once again feebly, but with a quick kick in the stomach from John Isaac Canary went tumbling off the edge of the railing; down to the cement flooring. Sherlock and John let out a sigh of relief and slumped down onto the stairs, breathing heavy.

"You two alright?" Lestrade asked, rushing to their aid. Sherlock nodded as he stared at the body that now lied in a pool of blood in the middle of the room. It was all over. He had won.

"Well, you were late," Sherlock stated with a small smile, turning his attention onto Lestrade. Lestrade raised a brow and smiled at the detective before slouching down next to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not as useless as you think huh?" Lestrade asked, pocketing his gun. Sherlock shrugged.

"Perhaps, but your team is what really needs some work."

"Being rude again?" John asked, nudging Sherlock's shoulder playfully.

"That, my dear John is technically called being honest," Sherlock stated, smiling at the doctor. John laughed, shaking his head. Sherlock laughed with him and their eyes met. The stress, worry, and pain that had been haunting them was completely gone now. Everything was beginning to curl back to normal again; just how they like it. Sherlock could feel all the weight of ruining his friends' lives disappearing as he stared at John. John was his friend; his best friend. He understood that now. All those things that had been said all that long ago felt so foreign now. It was all just some bad dream.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Let's go home." John held out his hand to his best friend and Sherlock didn't hesitate as he gave John his. The two smiled at each other and got up from where they sat on the stairway. Sherlock looked down at Lestrade, who was looking up at the two. Sherlock held out his free hand, taking Lestrade's and the three of them walked out of the dark museum back home where they belonged. Back home where they would blog, experiment, work, and go on more crazy adventures. Even those crazy days at the flat were still worth it all. Neither John, or Sherlock, or Lestrade would give it up.

* * *

**Well, I have really enjoyed this; this little story of mine, but I'm afraid that this is the end. I hope that all of you have enjoyed the ride and thank you to all those who have been fallowing, favoriting, and reviewing. I really appreciate it. If anyone has story ideas please let me know. I'm always writing and I love to to write about anything. Again, thank you all. **


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